


To Steal Our Seoul

by dirtypuzzle



Category: Mamamoo, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assemblywoman Kim Yongsun, Businessman Kim Seokjin | Jin, Doctor Jung Hoseok | J-Hope, Doctor Jung Wheein, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Idol Jeon Jungkook, Lawyer Kim Namjoon | RM, M/M, Police Officer Moon Byulyi, Police Officer Park Jimin, Political Thriller, Prosecutor Kim Taehyung
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 18:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtypuzzle/pseuds/dirtypuzzle
Summary: You’ve heard success stories, you’ve heard the tales of bright-eyed kids making it big on nothing but faith and ramen noodles, clutching a dream tighter than they ever did their sense. But do you have time for the failures? Time for the deep crevasse of those that slipped on the ice and fell through the mile-deep cracks?Sometimes we need sacrificial lambs, not heroes.State secrets aren't so secret anymore, and a handful of dreamers are going to get sucked in and never find their way back out. They can't let their Seoul die, not when it took so much blood to find it in the first place.“Bearing that in mind, the question which remains to us is this: what is humanity? What do we have to do to keep humanity as one thing and not another?"—Han Kang, 'Human Acts'





	To Steal Our Seoul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shaekspeares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaekspeares/gifts).



> I shouldn’t be writing anything new, but I wanted to fuck around with RPF and I also wanted to put together a story of corporate intrigue because I’m a nerd. (And I watched that Elizabeth Holmes documentary, sue me.)
> 
> As an aside, I'll be using the Americanized Latin spellings of everyone's names. I’m also not using hyphens between syllables of anyone’s names, so: Hyejin not Hye-Jin. This is because I’m using hyphens to attach the suffixes, similar to the Romanization of Japanese honorifics (Jeongguk-ssi, Hyejin-unnie, etc). I think it reads better in English, plus I’m not exactly sure why some idols’ given names (Namjoon, Seokjin, Jeongguk, etc) are often written without hyphens, but some are always written with hyphens (Hye-Jin, Whee-In, etc). As for suffixes, well. I understand how they're used in normal contexts, but I have no idea what the precedent for suffix use is in an argument, for example. So I'm going to wing it, and if anyone finds something missing or wrong or egregious, just point it out and I’ll fix it.
> 
> Finally, I’m going to do extensive research to be able to set this in South Korea, but if anything is culturally or factually wrong, I apologize. There’s only so much I can do when I’m not from and have never been to South Korea, so if anything is wrong just point me in the right direction. On the other hand, I now know way too much about the South Korean legal system and business cycle. I’ll also be pulling from recent South Korean political news and dropping links for that stuff in the notes.
> 
> Thank you so much to shaekspeares because their Sugamon fic finally kicked my ass to write this!

Namjoon lays his suit jacket _(this stupid fucking jacket)_ on the muddy bank of the Han River and sits down, legs sprawled in front of him and head finally _(finally)_ calm. The night’s wet and hot with the promise of summer rain, and he tilts his head back, for once able to see the dark expanse of Seoul’s sky without the thick haze of dust.

It shouldn’t be quiet, not where he’s sitting. Barely a block behind him sits the vast and expansive Seoul, the neon lights and tight spaces and broken soju bottles that litter the streets, but here _(soaked socks, cold feet, ruined—)_ there’s a vacuum, an opaque bubble of silence that he feels as he breathes, feels expanding his chest centimeter by centimeter. The kind of silence that holds him together, keeps the pieces of himself from violent and rapid expansion.

Maybe that’s _(_ ~~ _not_~~ _)_ just his heartbeat drowning out the noise.

He has an hour _(if she made it in time)_ before this little patch of mud and dirt is crawling with police officers _(_ ~~ _military_~~ _)_ , but he’s tired of running and tired of grasping at broken straws and for fuck’s sake, he’s _done_. Finished. Everyone can clean up their own forsaken messes. It’s not his problem anymore. He tried, damnit, he fucking _tried_.

_(I can sleep now, can’t I?)_

They were so _(_ ~~ _far_~~ _)_ close. They’d been _so close_ , and Namjoon hates as he lays back, staring at the city he thought might save him. From what, he doesn’t know. Never knew. He thought music _(_ ~~ _had to_~~ _)_ might save him too, back when dust didn’t kill eighteen thousand people a year and men tied Windsors not nooses. _(Never something YouTube couldn’t fix.)_

He is so tired. _(Close your eyes.)_

Lightning arcs, sparking and chaotic and angry. Inhale. Exhale.

Thunder reverberates in his suddenly hollow bones back and forth to the marrow before the storm breaks and the wind shrieks. Sheets of rain soak him through and he revels in it, enjoys the perpetual dampness seeping into his skin.

Namjoon leans into the mud with nothing but the vague hope that the rain washes him away and that the river erodes the rest to silt. He lies down to wait.

_(_ ~~_Thank fuck_ ~~ _.)_

 

* * *

 

Hyejin yanks her thin raincoat tighter around her, the howling wind and torrential rain undeterred by the concrete awnings of Onsu Station. The trains don’t run this late and the station’s deserted, the metal railing sticky under her tight grip. She shouldn’t still be here, not when she’s got forty-five minutes before Byulyi calls in the cavalry and they’re all the next heads on the chopping block.

 _He has to show._ Her knuckles go white against the railing. _He will._ “He will,” she whispers, but the wind drowns her out.

From the inside pocket of her jacket, her phone vibrates with an incoming call and she freezes. _Would he…?_ Hyejin doesn’t recognize the number, but swipes to answer the call and says “Hey” as firmly as she can.

There’s a crackle on the other line and then: “Hyejin? Where are you?”

Something in her chest loosens. “I’m at Onsu Station. Just about to leave, actually. Why’re you calling from…” She checks the area code and is suddenly _very_ confused. “...Jeollabuk?”

“I—. I went home.”

“...Wheein?” Her hand starts to shake. _No. No, she wouldn’t have. I should—I should know better than that, she wouldn’t._ “You—you went where?” A moment of silence stretches into the rattling of rail signs as the storm picks up, whipping trash across the tracks and making her fight to be heard over the wind. “Wheein?”

“I’m sorry, so so sorry, but—”

“You’re not _safe_!” Hyejin shouts, hand pressed to one ear to hear better. Thunder booms overhead, right on top of her, and she winces, scanning the station for any sign of Jin. _He said he’d be here._ “Jeonju is too far if something happens!”

A scoff comes across the line. “Not safe? Hyejin-ah, _Seoul_ isn’t safe. You’re lucky you haven’t been killed, and you expect me to—what? I just, I can’t go down this road with you anymore! I have to think about my mom.”

“Bring her here then,” Hyejin pleads. She’s soaked completely through and knows she can only wait so much longer, Jin or no. “You don’t have to leave her behind.”

The line crackles and Wheein sighs heavily. Hyejin knows that exasperated, apologetic sigh better than anyone, knows she’s already lost, knows that she never really had a chance. Wheein says, voice soft, “You don’t move to Seoul without leaving something behind.”

And maybe Wheein’s right about that, but it’s far too late to make a damn of difference, so Hyejin closes her eyes and decides she doesn’t have time to figure it out, just like she doesn’t have time to argue with her best friend of over a decade about a decision that’s already been made. _She never even mentioned wanting to go back home._ She can give Jin five more minutes and then she’s gone. _Why didn’t I notice?_

“I really am sorry,” Wheein says. _Oh, now she’s careful. Okay then._ “But I can’t lose my best friend _and_ my mom.”

Her tears stick in her throat as she says “I know” and hangs up.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sunbae?” the kid asks again, leaning forward into Yoongi’s space and making a stupid face, all polite and respectful. Not that all of the kid’s faces aren’t pretty stupid looking, if he’s being honest, but that’s more because, when Jeongguk gets lost in a conversation, he’d sooner stick his finger in a light socket or stare directly into the sun than engage. Which is, quite frankly, better than half the trainees Yoongi’s met that couldn’t tell their head from their ass if they had to shit.

He sighs. Why the fuck is this his job? “You can drop the formality, kid. And what’re you doing here anyway?”

Jeongguk shrugs, altogether too unconcerned for how hesitant he was five seconds ago. Brat. “Late vocal practice PD-nim added because of the tour.”

“And you’re in my studio because?”

Yoongi’s phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it in favor of staring at the half-exposed wire on the edge of his keyboard and focusing on the typhoon rattling the windows. His desktop reads 01:32. Twenty-eight minutes. Fuck does he not want to deal with this tonight.

“I saw your light on,” Jeongguk says, and then he hesitates as if Yoongi’s going to bite him. “I—uh. Thought I’d stop by?” His face screws up in embarrassment and, if Yoongi weren't where he is now, he’d probably tease him about it.

One of the biggest things Yoongi appreciates about Jeongguk is his ability to play off whoever he’s around, which means he can act like a total crackhead if he’s with someone like Yugyeom, or sit in comfortable silence with Yoongi when they manage to hang out. Which, thank God for that because hyper Jeongguk can be a fucking nightmare.

He should check his phone. It burns a hole in his pocket, but he’s carefully avoiding everything even remotely related to systemic corruption at the moment, thanks, and there’s an oncoming migraine building behind his eyes, exacerbated by this _fucking_ thunderstorm.

Jeongguk excuses himself after a few minutes, and Yoongi grunts at him as he leaves, trying to avoid human interaction for the moment. Are his…? Jesus Christ, his hands _are_ shaking, fuck. Fucking fuck.

01:44. Sixteen minutes.

_Bzzz._

He won’t answer it.

_Bzzz._

He’s not going to answer! He took his goddamn hands off of it, let Byulyi and Namjoon figure it out. He’s not about to step _back in_ —

 _Bzz_ —

Yoongi rips the phone from his pocket and hurls the fucking thing against the far wall, audibly shattering the screen and leaving a dent in the drywall.

But it’s quiet. Finally.

That’s—that’s all he wanted. A little peace and quiet after last—after _after_ —

Shit. Okay. He can do this. After tonight he’s in the clear, nobody’ll ask him for anything else, he can be on his merry way and forget any of this ever happened. Whatever the fallout, it is decidedly _not his problem_. Other people are handling it, they’ve got it covered.

His hands are still _shaking_. But God, he doesn’t want to deal with this right now. He _can’t_. In his experience, panic chokes and clogs and sticks. It overtakes as soon as he lets his guard down, drowns him the moment he isn’t paying attention, and then he washes out to sea to choke and scream and flail until the tide spits him back to shore. He can feel the oncoming wave, and the storm and his phone and his fucking shaking hands aren’t helping. Losing it here would spell disaster, not when he’s so close sofuckingclose to the end of this nightmare.

_Rrrrrrrng!_

The office landline. The _office landline_ —who the _fuck_ is calling the landline?

_Rrrrrrrng!_

The shattered screen of his iPhone lies innocently in the corner and he hates this shit, he doesn’t want back in—but. He reaches out for the receiver and picks it up on the last ring. “Who’s this?”

“Min!” Byulyi shouts right into his damn ear, and he yanks the receiver away from his face with a hiss. “Is there a Jeon Jeongguk with you?”

“ _What_?” he says, voice tight and close to cracking. Jeongguk has nothing to do with Byulyi and never has, why would she—? “Why?” No response. “Give me a fucking answer, Moon!”

There’s a loud curse among the eerie echoing of the thunderstorm from his window and the phone. He hears sirens blare and his heart seizes. It’s only—fuck—he checks the clock to find 01:56 staring back at him. “We heard chatter about a workup planned, but we didn’t get a name until last min—shit, turn here—last minute. If you recognize Jeon, you better find him before they do.”

Yoongi scoffs, but it rattles in his lungs like a marble in a jar. “Hurting or killing him would bring them unimaginable amounts of attention. They wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh please,” Byulyi says, and there’s a screech that he suspects is tires on wet asphalt. “You know better than anyone that they don’t need to leave marks to fuck that kid up.”

And goddamnit she’s right, but Jeongguk left almost a half hour ago and if he’s been picked up, Yoongi’s shit out of luck finding him before he gets drugged or waterboarded or _worse_ because they can _always_ do worse. Only a handful of people know enough of the network to find safehouses, and since Jin’s probably the only one more preoccupied than Byulyi at the moment, that leaves— “Could I get ahold of Namjoon? He could find out where he’s been taken, right?”

“Yeah,” she says, but hesitates just long enough that he thinks she won’t tell him the rest. “If you can get him to pick up his phone, you know he’ll help.”

“...If?”

“Min—.” She cuts herself off. There’s a whistle of breath. “Yoongi. We’re all on the hook for this, but Namjoon? This is it for him. The NIS isn’t merciful and it sure as hell isn’t forgiving.” The sirens grow in intensity and Yoongi knows they’ve only got another couple seconds.

“But—”

A gunshot echoing through the phone cuts him off and Byulyi says, “Look, if he hasn’t already thrown himself off a bridge, he’s your best shot at finding Jeon. Good luck.”

 _Click_.

Okay, so he’s got to find Jeongguk, who could be anywhere in Seoul, and track down an at best fatalistic Namjoon, and that’s. That’s _fine_. He might as well start by calling Namjoon, so he reaches into his pocket for his...phone. The totaled iPhone in pieces on the floor of his studio. The one he threw at the wall.

Fuck him with a _fucking_ chainsaw.

 

* * *

“Why did it have to piss rain _tonight_?” Jin demands of no one as he sprints through the streets surrounding Guro Station. He’s got a car waiting off the Expressway (if Yongsun is still there, which if she isn’t that would be Very Bad and he is so not in the mood, thanks), so he picks up his pace and holds the straps of his backpack tighter. “I hate rain! Why do I have to run in the rain?!” His lungs burn and he can barely feel his legs, but the auto shop he’s looking for is just another block.

Visibility lessens by the minute, but he spots a gray Hyundai in the side lot (he could barely see the thing, Yongsun’s lucky he didn’t blow past her even if she _is_ being stealthy) and cuts behind the adjoining pharmacy to catch his breath. His watch reads 01:16 (how is he going to catch Hyejin in time, middle of the night and no traffic or no?), so he pulls out his phone to text Hyejin about the files.

...His phone. Is gone. (He wouldn’t just lose the thing, he knows what kind of shit’s on it, so where…?)

“Forget something, Seokjin-ssi?” a feminine voice shouts from the mouth of the alley he’s currently occupying. Sheets of rain obscure her figure beyond black clothing and waist-length hair, but her gloved hand holds his obscenely glittered phone aloft.

He stills, glances at his watch (already 01:18 and he needs to get on the highway), but doesn’t let a thing show on his face. Nothing about this woman or her voice strikes him as familiar, but that means jack squat if she’s here on behalf of Jaehyun, which is quite honestly the nightmare scenario (he’s fucking been to see Jaehyun and is in no hurry to ever see him again, barring a steel cage or a bullet).

“You’ve caught me at a disadvantage,” Jin says loudly while rooting his hands in his trench coat pockets, grasping the Glock 22 lightly (fifteen plus one and an extra magazine, so he’ll have to be accurate if he wants to get out of this alive). “To whom am I speaking?”

The sound of the pounding rain echoes off the walls of the alley and the cracked concrete below their feet, creating a cacophony of white noise he can barely hear over. The woman steps forward blithely, Jin’s phone slipped into a back pocket and holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender (which would be more convincing if a holstered .45 didn’t sit at her hip and set him further on edge). “Sarah’s serviceable for now,” she says, with a heavy American ‘r’ in her name that throws him off.  

“I would usually love to stop and chat, but I really need to be going.” Jin flashes his most dazzling smile, all teeth and lips, and crosses his fingers. “May I have my phone?”

Sarah nods to herself as if acknowledging him, but then drops her hands and strides forward; stops ten centimeters from his face. (Why does _no one_ respect his personal space? Does he have a sign or something?)

“Jaehyun asked me for a favor yesterday,” she announces over the downpour. Up close, her eyes are a striking blue (something he’d usually chalk up to contacts but he’s pretty sure there aren’t any), and they’re unfairly piercing. “You know a Kim Namjoon, don’t you?”

(What is _that_ supposed to mean? If anyone so much as _touched_ Namjoon, Jin will put a bullet between their eyes without hesitation. And after all of the shit Namjoon put himself through for this, the NIS better believe that Jin will do the legal equivalent of slowly gouging out their eyes with a melon baller if they so much as _glance_ at Namjoon.)

Her hands close around his throat before he can process it, and she shoves him against the brick of the alley, scraping against his skin. The rain that obscured her face from far away now doesn’t hinder him, and he can see this close that she isn’t entirely Korean (her accented name would suggest American, but he doesn’t know how that would make any sense), she’s _tall_ (at least five foot nine), and unfairly built.

The Glock in his pocket taunts him, but he can’t move a muscle if he doesn’t want a gut full of lead from the .45 pressed up against his stomach. Her hands tighten against his throat enough to leave bruises but not enough to rob him completely of air.

“If you want to see the Kim Namjoon you know again,” she shouts into his ear, “then I suggest letting this go.”

He considers it. (Hell, he considered it as recently as yesterday for God’s sake. Whistleblowing never exactly made it on his high school career form.) Namjoon is—he’s everything. He’s everything even when neither of them thought they’d make anything of themselves, especially not now, not after what they’ve done. Jin considers it because there are people he owes still—people that have given him more than he’ll ever be able to repay, Namjoon among them—and maybe it’s selfish, but he wants forgiveness. He does. He wants to look his father in the eye without guilt and hug his mom without a chasm standing between them wider than he can even attempt to bridge.

He wants to kiss Namjoon without fear, without hesitation, without shame.

(After what they’ve sacrificed for this, it’s _shameful_ to even consider.)

“I—” he says, slackening against the alley. His eyes close in resignation. “...How?”

Sarah smirks and her shoulders relax just enough. (What does she think of him to actually believe he would? What did Jaehyun tell her? Or not tell her?)

Her height means the round goes clean through her pelvis. Jin barely hears it over the storm and the blood rushing in his ears.

His phone is ruined, but he picks it up anyway and shoves it in the outside pocket of his bag. Evidence, especially his phone, can’t be left behind. There’s enough of it as it is.

Jin staggers back to the lot with Yongsun’s gray Hyundai half in a daze. Ignores her stare. Throws his bag in the backseat.

“...Are you okay?” Yongsun asks as he slams the passenger door. Her fingers noticeably dig into the steering wheel when her eyes linger on the bloodstains covering his clothes. “Are we still headed to Onsu?”

(They are. He has to get to Hyejin before she leaves. The dashboard clock reads 01:44.)

“Yeah,” he says, and they don’t talk after that.

 

* * *

The room is too quiet, too sad. Wheein sits at the kitchen counter in the dark, a single fluorescent throwing harsh shadows against the edges of the walls, and she can close her eyes, imagine her mom puttering around the kitchen distractedly. This is their home and their space, her mom’s canvas and her open stage.

_(“Wheein-ah, where are you going?” An indulgent smile. Charcoal-stained hands._

_Hyper. Excited. “Hyejin got a trainee position!” Distracted._

_“Just don’t be late to the hospital tomorrow.”_

_A laugh. “Of course not, Eomma.”)_

She squeezes her eyes shut.

_(Tears and snot. “Eomma I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t want to.”_

_“Oh, honey.” A hand on her face. Heavy disappointment. A lump in her throat. Kinder eyes than she deserves. “Come here.”)_

Hyejin needs her; Wheein knows it. They all need her even if she doesn’t want to admit it. They needed her— _need_ her—but here she is, holed up in this dark kitchen, eyes glued to the microwave clock, crossing her fingers that her best friend doesn’t get arrested or disappear or _die_. Crossing her fingers—she should be using them, using them to keep those morons alive when they inevitably get themselves into deep enough shit to require stitches.

_(“I’m fine. Stop poking me.” Fond. A smile he doesn’t give lightly. “I don’t need nagged.”_

_A scoff. “If it isn’t music, you need beat with a stick. How many times does this make it?” Laughter.)_

The silence echoes in her head, bounces off the walls and rings in her ears. She tries to focus on the cool linoleum countertop and the stiff barstool under her. The rings of coffee from her dad’s mug, the superglue she spilled years ago while trying to apply glue-on nails, the chips from an enthusiastic New Years in elementary school, the charred spot next to the stove where her mom left a hot pan by accident. The cold fluorescence paints it all in an eerie sort of fragility, the kind that crawls underneath her skin and beats an incessant reminder behind her eyes, the fragility that almost shattered this home once before.

If she leaves, it will crumble. Wheein knows better at this point. Knows better than to fuck this up _again_.

_(Silence._

_“Appa—”_

_A hand. A pause. “Is this what you want?” Expectations. Weight she doesn’t want. Decisions she doesn’t want._

_“It is.” Too late. Too little. Much, much too late.)_

None of it matters right now. It’s 01:55 and she damn well made her decision. It’s too late to back out now.

_(“Oh sweetie.”_

_Pity. Concern. So much concern._

_“I already forgave you, but do you forgive yourself?”)_

 

* * *

Bullets are _very fucking inconvenient_ , and Byulyi might’ve signed up for manning the drunk tank during the dozen yearly festivals in every crevice of the city, but she _goddamn didn’t_ sign up for international financial corruption using human trafficking and the idol industry _of all things_ as a cover. Which leaves her here, with Insik and his shitty driving, bullets, and every bit of _not enough_ steel she can muster to arrest the South Korean heads of this whole operation.

Though _hopefully there won’t be_ , next time she’s going to put in for a motherfucking sick day. The department fucking owes her at this point.

“Hold on!” Insik shouts, pulling her attention back to a little more momentarily relevant things, and her neck almost breaks as he takes a turn without slowing down _at all, the prick_. Insik should never have been given a license, not with his abysmal ability to keep cervical vertebrae from separating.

 _Unfortunately_ , that’s exactly what they need, and Byulyi _tries to get a grip_ , steadies herself as they screech to a stop in the parking lot of an NIS safehouse on the southwest outskirts of Seoul. Barring any other occasion, she’d rather yank her own teeth out with _pliers_ than associate with the National Intelligence Service, but since the chaebol have international contacts out the ass, Seoul Metropolitan is already up shit’s creek, and it’s her job to find a paddle before any of her contacts or their families mysteriously disappear, turn up at the bottom of the Han, or _should they see a black hat in the crowd_ find themselves stranded on the other side of the one border nobody will help them cross. _A messenger, indeed_.

The place is an absolute mess and has obviously been gutted for anything useful, but since they only need it for a temporary refuge, it isn’t a problem. The real question is _where the fuck_ is Jin and Hyejin? Without physical evidence of Kang’s relationship to Park Jaehyun, the National Assembly won’t appoint special counsel to put the case together, and Byulyi can’t rely on Namjoon to do all of the legwork if they want this case to get off the ground.

As it is, the Assembly’s dragging its feet because _corruption and conspiracy cases aren’t what they used to be_ , so it’s her ass-fucked job to push this down their throats. Hopefully it doesn’t crash and burn the second that the Prime Minister sees Kang’s name on the warrant, which is still a distinct possibility and one that’s likely to result in a handful of empty soju bottles if it happens.

“What’d you get from Jimin?” Insik asks as he tosses his bag onto the linoleum counter. He undoes his reflective vest but doesn’t take it off, both of them knowing that a fifteen minute respite won’t feel long.

Byulyi sets the handset radio on the end table nearest to the front door and _checks the damn volume before the encrypted channels blow their eardrums again_. “Apparently border patrol finally got shots of the estuary during a scuffle with Chinese fishermen. As far as they know, it’s one of the smuggling routes into Seoul.”

There’s silence for a few moments as they wait for orders to come down from the Superintendent General.

Insik stops fiddling with his bag and turns to face her. His voice is tight as he says, “Do you think this’ll _go_ anywhere? I’m being paid so I’m more than happy to do it, but do you _honestly_ believe a conspiracy and corruption case with North Korea will get anywhere?” He practically falls into a kitchen chair, wariness and suspicion in his hunched shoulders.

Which, _yeah okay_ , none of this has been smooth sailing, but _irrefutable evidence is irrefutable evidence_ , and Byulyi has to believe the system isn’t that irreparably broken if she wants to stay a cop. “And do what, then? Let it go?”

He shrugs, but it doesn’t quite pull off careless. “No. But none of this could even happen without cooperation from the brass, so how likely is it they’re just gonna sit on their hands?”

That’s unfortunately a _good fucking point_ , but she doesn’t exactly have time to refute it because her radio crackles to life.

_“Op has been cleared by the Superintendent General. SWAT Seoul Squadron One will serve the warrant. Inspector Moon, you’re advising Prosecutor Kim for the duration of the op. Over.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that the Korean National Police don’t call it SWAT anymore (it’s the Special Operations Unit), but SWAT is recognizable to more people so I’m sticking with that. 
> 
>  
> 
> So what do you guys think about it? I'm excited to see where this goes.


End file.
